


i feel fear

by mishkinat



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Doctor John Watson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, PTSD Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Sick Character, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-09-21 20:48:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9565820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishkinat/pseuds/mishkinat
Summary: Sherlock tries and fails to deal with emotions after his return from the Fall. Then his conductor of light returns to guide him.





	1. Chapter 1

"Please don't do this to me." Sherlock's voice caught in his throat, casting his gaze to the floor. John paused in the doorway, his heart sinking deep down into his stomach.

"Yeah, well. It's for your own good, believe me." John bit his lip and then turned to leave.

 

That conversation had taken place a week ago, but to Sherlock it had felt like a lifetime. He sat back in his chair with his read rolled back and eyes closed. To the world, he was as good as dead. Nothing would reach him, not the temptation from Lestrade nor the wafting smell of tea Mrs Hudson clearly used as bait to try and pull him out of...whatever this was. He thought back on that last conversation with John and instantly his breath hitched. He leaped up from his chair with his heart hammering in his chest. It was all too much. It was  _too wrong_ _._ Never, not once in the whole time he was fighting it out alone in Asia or when he was in  _Serbia_ , did he ever think that John Watson would react like this. Sherlock had been stupid.

He shouted out in defeat. He balled his hands into a fist and released them repeatedly before picking at his lips deep in thought. From an outsider's perspective, he was clearly a madman. Quick, frenzied movements with no pattern or real clear reason for these behaviours were visible to anybody how happened to pop in on him. Mrs Hudson was increasingly worried about the detective.

 _John Watson had lied to him_. It rang out in his head, made it burn and ache until he couldn't see clearly. He tripped over and clutched his chest. His breathing had grown increasingly erratic and the only thought which made sense to Sherlock was how glad he was that Mrs Hudson wasn't home to see this mess. 

After a few minutes, he hauled himself up. He wiped the sweat from his brow but it didn't help much. With shaky hands he made for his bedroom, where he stood still in the middle of the room. Frozen in time, he tried to let no thought race through his mind. It wouldn't work.  He turned to the mirror and could his heart turned to ice. He could barely tell that it was him. His hair was matted, his eyes sunken. An already fragile frame was made infinitely frailer. Sherlock felt like an old man. Damaged, alone and useless. With a re-surge of frustration, he punched the mirror which cracked and shattered. Glass sliced through his knuckles and blood dripped down his wrist. It was an ugly sight which frightened Sherlock, but it was the lack of pain which worried him most. Sweat continued to build up, his whole body shaky and uncomfortable.

The only pain he could feel was a deep burning from the lacerations on his back. He knew he had deep wounds there, but he couldn't face them. Now he was paying the price for that. Something was deeply wrong. That realisation hit him hard. He keeled over, a horrific retching noise heaved his body but nothing would come. He slammed his fists against the floor and buried his face into the floor, hiding his tears from nobody. His whole body felt on fire. It was too hot, too sore, too lonely. Sweat clung to his forehead. John Watson had lied to him. 

"It's for your own good, believe me." John Watson left Baker Street. That was a lie, how could it be for his own good? Poor John. Poor, perfect John. The weight of Sherlock's return had been too much for him - Sherlock could see the seething hatred in his eyes. It stung the centre of his heart. John Watson had seen the state Sherlock was in and had decided to leave. Why? Sherlock wasn't entirely sure.  _He was probably too tired of me. Too kind to say the truth._  

His head swam. Everything was wrong. Sherlock collapsed on the floor.

 

          Out of the darkness, something grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him violently. He gasped and moaned, but remained in the darkest corner of his mind. Serbia. The smell of sweat and blood, the straining of the metal as it clinked against the bricks. The moans and laughs mixed with the pained grunts and screams. Flesh which had been torn, mangled, whipped and scratched. Nails pulled and teased. Hair pulled. Blood. The whole scene played out in front of him again and again, night after night. The torture hadn't left him. Something grabbed him again, gentler this time. Gentle, but pleading.

"You bastard, you don't do this now. I came back."

Someone was calling out to him. He knew exactly who it was, but it couldn't be real. He wouldn't let it be.

"I'm feeling that fear again, Sherlock. God, I must be so blind. Come on. I want to start over. Rewind. Please."

Sherlock gasped violently and opened his eyes. And there he was, John Watson. He ran a gentle hand over Sherlock's face. The touch would usually have repelled Sherlock but this time he closed his eyes and leaned into it, gulping down any emotion. When he opened his eyes again John was still staring.

"Don't." Sherlock croaked, gripping John's wrist. John was so astounded he couldn't speak, the closest he managed was to open his mouth slightly. 

Sherlock bowed his head in a vain attempt to hide his fear, his tears. "You're looking at me....like you don't really recognise me anymore. I don't either. It's my eyes, isn't it?" There was a heart-wrenching whine.

Sherlock ran his good hand over his blood-encrusted knuckles and then feebly managed to lift his head, bringing his gaze to meet John's.

John moved closer to him. It was hard for them both to express emotions, and this was as good as it gets. "I made a mistake, Sherlock. I never should have left you. I just thought I'd make it worse. But look at you...."

Sherlock flinched.

"No, no. I don't mean it like that. Let me help you." John crouched by the man, now holding his face in both of his hands. "Please."

Sherlock felt so human now. It hurt him. He didn't deserve this, not John. Sherlock covered his face with his hands and John quaked at the image in front of him, resembling a scared child.

John ran another hand over Sherlock's head and his neck. "You've a terrible fever, Sherlock." 

Sherlock nodded. "Infection. My back."

John's face was written full of worry, pain and... guilt? Sherlock was too exhausted at this point. Too tired to be stubborn, too relieved to defy John. He gave himself up.

John gave a sad smile. There was no pity, just pain and hope. 

"Sherlock. I'm going to help you. You need to let me. I trust you, you know that. I'm going to help you with your fever and your injuries. But you've got to trust me, too." It became harder for John to find the right words as the expression on Sherlock's face turned from pain and fear to plain confusion. "We'll do it right this time. Me and you, together. I'm such a cock-I thought I'd hurt you by staying. I'm not going to let you down, ever again. Ever. Okay? You mean more to me than that. More than you could ever know."

John felt tears run down his cheek, and the only thing that felt natural was to wrap his arms around Sherlock's wiry body. Sherlock returned the gesture.

"I do know that. Believe me." Sherlock wiped away a tear, choking out sobs of agony and relief. John held him, and understood completely what those wretched sobs meant.

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is reluctant to talk to John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a short chapter (I'm sorry because of the wait) but I am going to publish twice this week.

The next morning Sherlock awoke slowly. At first he was confused that it was really Baker Street he was in, but the memories of the previous night clicked back into his mind accompanied by a strange mixture of relief and shame. He had no right to John Watson's help. 

As he pulled himself up out of bed his whole body ached. Sherlock had been grateful for the lack of nightmares, which he pinned on that warm feeling he had gotten in his belly at John's touch as he drifted off to sleep.

John. Sherlock blinked. Was he still here?

He crept into the living room, grabbing his dressing gown as he went. It was cooler this morning. A quiet relief flooded through him at the site of John Watson sitting relaxed in his armchair with a cup of tea. Sherlock mentally kicked himself for this relief but watched John carefully, scared that he would leave at any moment.

When Sherlock sat down opposite him, John immediately threw all of his attention on him.

"Did you sleep okay?" John asked.

"It was fine." Sherlock said, looking nowhere in particular.

John frowned - why be so open with him last night, to suddenly close off again?

"Are you sore?"

Sherlock shook his head, lying. Sherlock didn't want to talk about any of this now. He needed to forget it all so that he could move on with his work.

John put his mug down beside him and sighed slightly, realising the tough task which lay ahead of him.

"Sherlock, I know when you're lying to me. I'll get you some painkillers, just stay there."

"No!" Sherlock jumped up from his chair, jolting at the pain in his back. "No painkillers." He held an arm out to John.

"Sherlock, you can't be serious. I'm a doctor, let me help you."

"No, John. Please. Just let me-" Sherlock cut himself off with a frustrated sigh and slumped back into his chair. He ran a hand through his hair and clamped a hand over his face as a mask.

_Don't let John see your emotions._

 

John frowned and approached Sherlock, kneeling beside him.

"Sherlock. I'm your friend, okay? I forgive you-"

At this, Sherlock unwillingly let out a miserable whine.

"Sherlock. Honestly. I'm not lying to you. I've been here, you know that. You saved my life - more than once. Now I have you back...don't let me lose you again."

Sherlock uncurled from his ball and drew his hand away from his face. He could tell from John's voice that he was being serious, but Sherlock simply was not ready to open up now. He had caused John so much pain...he didn't deserve any forgiveness.

"I know this will take time but you've got to let me help you."

John held Sherlock's wrist, slowly and gently. Sherlock froze - John's heart skipped a beat, he hoped Sherlock would welcome this touch. Sherlock loosened himself and let John touch him. Relief in both their hearts.

 

John was right, but Sherlock wasn't ready to admit that quite yet.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry! not going to lie, i kinda forgot about this. Now I have finished all my other works, I will focus more on this again! Twice a week updates should start from next week :)

Later that evening, Sherlock awoke with a headache. His weakness which had shown the day before made guilt and shame grow heavy on his shoulders. He blinked in the darkness, trying to readjust his senses to try and make sense of everything which he had been feeling.

Everything always came back to John. It was as if it were a law of the universe, just like physics, it was incomprehensible but very real all the same. Sherlock and John, quite literally, was meant to be. They were a force which nothing could tear apart, not even themselves. This comforted Sherlock slightly.

John. Where was he? Sherlock hobbled up off the couch, gritting his teeth at the feeling of being as vulnerable as a little old man. His back ached like hell, but he wasn't ready to discuss that. He doubted he ever would. Just let it go, he told himself. Ignore it. Sherlock fumbled for the light switch, muttering swear words under his breath but eventually managed to flip it on. He nearly jumped ten feet in the air in fright as the light illuminated John's face, who was standing in the doorway.

"Jesus- John." Sherlock's eyes were wide, his hand clamped over his chest.

"Sorry, I wasn't sure whether or not the light would wake you." John scratched his ear, trying to mask the uncomfortable silence that had fallen.

"It's fine." Sherlock turned his face away, so he wasn't staring at John's face. The light made his head spin.

John frowned and reached out a hand but didn't touch him; he was ready to support Sherlock if he stumbled, "Sherlock? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Sherlock shook his head, only making the pain worse. He sucked in air through his teeth.

"You can't lie to me, Sherlock. Remember what I said? I meant it. Really." John searched Sherlock's gaze for a sign of belief but was only met with a distant, pained expression.

 

Sherlock's heart snapped in two. It was a painful reminder he even had a heart. He didn't deserve John after what he had done, he definitely didn't deserve his help. Sherlock trusted and admired John with every cell in his body, and while his heart trusted and believed John had forgiven him, his mind did not. He couldn't trust himself.

"Sherlock, are you sore?"

He nodded miserably. 

"I need to help, no matter what you think of yourself. Okay?" John took a serious tone he reserved for uncooperative patients.

Sherlock frowned, and panic rose in his chest. Is that all he was? A patient? After everything that happened...It hurt him, more than the pain in his head or back. Frustration built up in his chest, anger at himself. Why did he feel so hurt, when he had decided he wasn't good enough for John? This cycle of conflicting feelings had raged and fought within him since he had returned, and it didn't look like it was going to stop any time soon.

John. Focus on John.

Sherlock gave the slightest nod of his head. However, John had notices the strange twist of expression - for a moment, Sherlock breathed heavy, and the pain in his eyes sent a dagger straight to his own heart. Was he having some sort of flashback? John's stomach plummeted.

"What's sore?" John straightened his shoulders.

"Head and back." 

"Not a problem. Is the light hurting your head worse?"

Sherlock hesitated but nodded. John turned it off immediately and retrieved a candle from the kitchen. 

"It's a dim light...sorry if it still hurts, but I'll need to see what I'm doing. Just take a seat on the sofa - try not fall...sorry." He wasn't sure what he was apologising for exactly, perhaps it was the whole situation. When Sherlock was seated comfortably, John opened up a cupboard and snatched his First Aid Kit and poured a glass of cool water before clambering over to the couch and settling down beside Sherlock as gently as possible.

"Right." John's voice was soft and Sherlock's heart melted. "Take these." John pressed two pills into Sherlock's palm and passed him the glass.

Sherlock hesitated, and screwed up his face.

"What's wrong?" John placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I don't want to take them."

"Why?"

Sherlock was silent. 

"They'll help you feel better."

"...I know. I know. It's hard-"  Sherlock's voice cracked and John immediately wrapped an arm around him.

"It's okay. I promise."

Sherlock nodded and quickly took the pills, grimacing and shaking through the whole ordeal. John felt absolute sorrow.

"Let me look at your back, please."

Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt and turned slightly, a slight gasp escaping his mouth as he did so.

John was gentle and incredibly delicate when removing and replacing the bandages, cleaning the wounds so it didn't hurt for long. Sherlock wanted to collapse utterly into John's arms, then he could be safe. But he couldn't do that. He never could. 

"Sherlock, can we talk?" John sighed, but Sherlock was guilty enough to steal a glance of John's gaze and understood something which he had denied.

John was forgiving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading xx


	4. Chapter Four - Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very very short chapter for now, followed by a longer one tomorrow.
> 
> This can be seen as an interlude-type.

John was scared. Every movement he made or word he uttered felt like a dagger on the verge of falling. He was scared that he was hurting Sherlock. At first, he had wanted to leave - to stay away from Sherlock completely, no matter how much it would have torn his heart in two. He genuinely thought that would be the best way to handle the situation, because he felt he was incapable of helping. 

He was going to make everything worse.

That's what he had told himself over and over. 

Yet he didn't really want to believe it. Then he decided to come back to Sherlock. To do the best he could to help him, even if he would be hopeless at it. Physical wounds - fine. He knew that. He could do that. Part of the reason why he persuaded himself to come back was because he knew he was very good in that area. He also knew there was more to why he came back, yet he didn't want to admit that quite yet.

But he came back.

That's what counts.

He came back for Sherlock. However, everything had been turned on its head. Conversations were awkward, short. Sherlock didn't want to interact. John felt as if any movement or conversation would cause the very foundations of his and Sherlock's relationship to collapse. It was tough.

Yes, he could patch up Sherlock's wounds. He would. He'd do the best job he could. But he couldn't heal Sherlock's mind, no matter how much he wanted to. 

But he'd be damned if he didn't try.

John Watson wasn't about to give up on Sherlock Holmes again.

They needed to talk.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry for the long wait

As the morning sunlight cast an orange glow across the Baker Street living room, the two men sat across from each other in their respective chairs. It felt natural and good and both were completely at ease. It was a sorrowful morning. 

Both men knew they needed to talk. Neither wanted to begin it. 

"How are you feeling?" John croaked, half-surprised he managed to start.

"Better." Sherlock frowned, his eyes falling to the floor and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

John noticed.

"Well, that's good. Little steps, right?"

Sherlock didn't answer. The little talk made his whole life feel bland.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?" John tried to be bolder.

"No." Sherlock rose from his chair abruptly, stumbled slightly but regained balance quick enough to hide it, "I think I'll call Lestrade. I want a case! Yes, that'll do it. Too much sitting, John. It's not good for you, you know. Too much moping. He probably needs me anyway. Where's my phone? Have you seen my phone?" He scrambled around, darting back and forth, searching but not really looking.

"Sherlock, for God's sake. You cannot go on a case. Not in this state."

Sherlock froze. "What state?"

"Don't." John sighed. "Just don't. I'm trying to help you."

"Yes." Sherlock nodded, indignant. "And you've done a pretty good job. Look," Sherlock stretched his back and patted it, "Hardly felt that."

"Sherlock-"

"Stop." The playful tone in Sherlock's voice vanished immediately. "I'm not going to talk about it."

"You need to!"

"You're not my therapist, John. Believe me. Who's it really going to help, me yapping about all my problems like a little girl? Nobody. You'll be awkward and I'll be embarrassed. It's just how it is."

"It's not healthy, Sherlock."

"So what? Neither's smoking." He pulled a cigarette out of his sleeve. "Do you have a lighter? Oh, that's right...you don't smoke."

Sherlock was trying as hard as he could to be an asshole. He hoped the more he was rude and the more he acted ignorant, the more John would just return to how it was before. Before the Fall. Before that.

And it nearly worked. John's anger welled up inside and almost erupted until it froze at the sight of Sherlock's face. John saw the mask had slipped, cracked and shattered. Sherlock's movements and voice were convincing, but his face showed fear and sadness. The sight of Sherlock so human was terrifying yet so endearing to John that no matter what, he knew he would power through these moods. One day Sherlock would open up to him, he decided. 

"I'm calling Lestrade. I'm telling him no cases until I say so." John said solemnly. 

"No, please, no, John. No-"

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.  
> For now it is a one-shot but I can maybe turn it into a story, just comment if you want more.


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